One Year: Falling
by Umbrella-ella
Summary: Dean and Luna— it had always been Dean and Luna. Never one without the other— it just so happened that no one had noticed until it was too late. Until they were standing in front of her grave, until he was so far gone that even the alcohol wouldn't help him forget. D/L, post-War.


_A/N: So, I signed up for a challenge called the "We Are Never, Ever Getting Together Challenge", which is a challenge involving unexpected and/or underappreciated pairings, and well, Dean/Luna just don't get the attention they should, frankly. So, here I am, with a brand-new, shiny couple I've never written before, so here they are!_

_Disclaimer: If I were JK Rowling, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction, would I? Alas, I have not written a best-seller series, I have not changed countless millions of lives for the better, and I am not one of the richest women in the world. I have a cat, though._

Dean couldn't recall exactly how he had ended up here. Where was 'here' again?

Oh yes, the Leaky Cauldron. Tom the barkeep met Dean's gaze and smiled weakly at his recent customer. He did not care to smile back; instead, the dark-skinned wizard gestured to the empty shot glass that now joined its brothers on the bar counter beside him.

The quiet hum of silence filled the stagnant air, and the heat was unbearable, but yet he stayed, surrounded by people just like him, people who would rather forget for a day than remember for a lifetime.

It might as well have been a graveyard.

Dean found he quite liked the silence.

As Tom poured more whiskey into the glass, the grief-stricken young man watched the amber liquid with a numb satisfaction as it nearly sloshed over the edge, dangerously close to spilling onto the counter. The silence was almost unbearably peaceful, and yet, Dean enjoyed the lack of questions, the lack of concern. He didn't care about these people, and they didn't care about him. This provided an escape from having to recount every bitter moment of the memory that had been so violently etched into the backs of his eyelids. He didn't sleep much anymore. Nobody did.

Burning liquor and booming silence was just the ticket for avoiding the dismal reminders of their losses at the numerous anniversary parties of the Second War Victory, Dean thought wryly. He had seen George Weasley earlier, in the crowded bar, his shock of Weasley red hair easy to spot in the dark establishment, but Dean hadn't bothered to offer condolences.

Condolences meant shit these days, everyone knew that. Especially if you didn't mean them in the first place. And quite frankly, Dean didn't mean them. He didn't care what George or anyone else lost, because everyone seemed to forget what he had lost. He had watched her fall, her blond hair contrasting morbidly with the dark grass, her golden locks fanning out in a sort of halo around her head.

Luna was gone.

And he had tried so hard to convince himself that she was going to wake up— he had gathered her head in his lap and let tears streak through the dirt on his face as he smoothed her hair perfectly, threading his dark fingers through her extraordinarily pale hair, so that perhaps she could be sleeping, and just maybe she would wake up.

She didn't.

So he cried until there were no more tears to be shed, screamed until his voice was hoarse, and then, when there was no more to be done but to leave her on the cold floor of the destroyed school, he left her, ignoring Seamus' pleas, and drowned his pain in alcohol.

Every day.

Same time, place, everything.

Again, Dean downed another shot of firewhiskey, and slapped the glass on the table. One year ago today.

One year ago today, the Wizarding World had defeated Voldemort.

One year ago today, he had lost everything.

He had told her how he felt once, on the beach at Shell Cottage, when life seemed so small and full of hope and they seemed like they had a fighting chance. Dean had told Luna he loved her, told her he would marry her as soon as the War was over, and she just smiled up at him dreamily, settling her head in the crook of his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The smell of her— strawberries and a sweet fragrance uniquely her— still lingered on his sweaters.

He hadn't counted on losing her.

The ring, his mother's, still weighed heavy in his pocket, as if it were the weight of the world pulling him deeper, deeper down into an inescapable abyss of vivid memories and tortured grief.

And he was down so damn deep, he didn't know how to get out.

He wasn't even sure he wanted to get out.

Because living without her light, it really didn't seem like living at all.

_A/N: Wow, if you've made it to the end, congratulations! I know I almost didn't! I didn't expect it to be that angsty! I have never done angst, so this was a challenge for me, but despite the potential flaws this piece may have had, I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave your comments in the little box below! _


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